My daughter Lexi has just started with separation anxiety. Meaning, every time I leave her line of sight for more than a moment, an explosive barrage of tears and snot ensues, which unfolds something like this:

“Yes, baby, we can do another round of Itsy Bitsy Spider. We’ve done it five times now, but, hey, you seem to dig it. Ok, ready?”

(A giggle, hands clap in delight; I’m offered a cherubic smile, with some blubbering and drool.)

So far, so good.

“Uh oh, baby. Mommy’s got to sneak away to the bathroom real quick first. Here, let’s put you in your play yard for a moment, sweetheart. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as Lexi realizes I’m tip toeing away from her toward the door: cue the outrageous, piercing howls.

(thump thump thump thump) — jumping up and down in the play yard, violently rattling the side — Mehmeh! Mehmeh! MEHH MEHHH!! MEHMEHMEHMEHMEHMEEEEEEH!!!

(‘Mehmeh’ is me, I’ve come to realize.)

My delicate, angelic baby transitions into a frenzied, hysterical devil, complete with beastly head spins and wailing until she barfs.

Due to this current phase of clinginess, it’s difficult to focus on and finish tasks throughout the day. Or eat.

Or sleep.

Oh god, I’m so hungry.

So what does one do all day with a baby velcroed to one’s leg, constantly demanding attention?

My pint-sized shadow and I just returned from a mailbox stroll — it took some persuasion to pry my envelope from chubby, snot-filled fists, but I did manage to slip the letter (mostly) unscathed into the slot … just a tad soggy, with a teeny nibble in the right corner.

As I type this, she’s bouncing on my lap, engaged in jolly chitter-chatter, while manipulating open the desk drawer and vigorously chucking everything from said drawer onto the hardwood floor.